


she's the one i've watered

by pools_of_venetianblue



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Cormoran Strike's Love Language is Gift Giving, F/M, Fluff, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29450682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pools_of_venetianblue/pseuds/pools_of_venetianblue
Summary: One year on from the infamous Nightmare Dinner: it's Valentine's Day once more, and Strike has some surprises up his sleeve.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 50
Kudos: 123





	she's the one i've watered

**Author's Note:**

> This fic originally appeared in the excellent [ Valentine's Day Post over at Strike Fans ](http://strikefans.com/happy-valentines-day-strike-and-robin/); if you haven't already, you should definitely check it out!
> 
> Thanks to BlueRobinWrites for being a wonderful beta reader, as always! 💖

_“...my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she's the one I've watered. Since she's the one I put under glass, since she's the one I sheltered behind the screen. Since she's the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except the two or three butterflies). Since she's the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all. Since she's my rose.”_

_\- The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry_

As she climbed the stairs from the Tottenham Court Road tube station, Robin was mentally going over her schedule for the day. Strike would be on surveillance this morning, but he was planning to call in for the meeting they had set with a potential new client at three. She’d prep for that first thing, then spend the rest of the morning updating the files on Two-Times’s latest girlfriend. She had to talk to Pat about the rota at some point too, she realized, dodging past a slow-moving tourist dragging a heavy suitcase behind them.

As she reached the top of the steps, she passed a tall, thin, blonde woman, wearing a skirted trench coat, whose face was taut with anger as she yelled into her mobile, “It’s Valentine's Day, Hugo! We had plans!”

Robin tugged her own phone out of her pocket and glanced at the date, confirming that she had, indeed, forgotten that it was Valentine's Day. 

The revelation came with a certain sinking sensation. She couldn’t help remembering the night exactly a year ago, which she easily ranked as one of the worst Valentine’s she’d ever spent; single, exhausted, gritting her teeth through the Nightmare Dinner, watching Strike vomit in the street and the blowout fight she’d had with him immediately after… 

But at the same time, she remembered seeing her phone light up with his name the next day, her surprise at his unprompted and sincere apology, the way he’d made her laugh and cry at the same time. She’d felt a change in him, in the year since that night. He’d been slightly more thoughtful, more open. Warmer. He’d remembered her birthday, and Christmas too, and she felt a small glow of pleasure at the memory of both as she unlocked the outer door of the office and started up the metal stairs.

And though she could admit to herself now (even if only when alone in her bed, in the hidden dark of night) that she might want _more_ of Strike, might in fact want _all_ of him, she was content with what they had. 

Best mates, she reminded herself with a tiny spurt of happiness as she keyed open the office door.

Pat hadn’t yet arrived, and Robin deposited the day’s mail on the front desk on her way through to the inner office, unwinding her scarf and unbuttoning her coat as she went.

At the sight of her desk, she halted in her tracks and stared.

Standing there, emerging from a slim glass vase, was a single exquisite white rose.

She had worked late last night, but she knew had left her desk tidy, its surface bare, as always. The rose hadn’t been there then. She felt a quick stab of anxiety as the image of a quivering bundle of red roses swam before her eyes, and hesitated a moment before stepping forward. 

As she moved closer, she saw that the bottom of the vase was filled with glass pebbles of the most delicate blue-grey. There was a card propped up next to it, bright pink and glittery with a cartoonish red bird singing on the front of it. 

She picked up the card with trembling fingers, and flipped it open.

**You said I wasn't to get you flowers,**

**so I picked out just the one.**

**Love Strike x**

The sight of the cramped and spiky handwriting, as familiar to her as her own, came with a rush of relief, followed almost instantly by something much warmer spreading through her in its wake. She huffed a quiet laugh of surprise and delight as she lifted the flower carefully from the vase, the water clinging to its stem cool on her fingers. She inhaled its scent, its petals soft as they brushed against her lips, and read the card again.

There had been white roses at her wedding; she wondered now if Strike remembered. She would have thought, a day ago, that this particular flower would hold only bad memories for her. But now, all she could see as she twirled the stem slowly between her fingers was Strike standing sheepishly next to an overturned vase at the back of the church; all she could feel was his arms around her, his breath stirring the curls of her hair.

“Morning.”

She looked up, startled. Strike was standing in the door of the office, a tray of coffees in one hand, a paper bag in the other. He was wearing his overcoat still, with a dark blue scarf wrapped around his throat. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, his eyes bright, and Robin’s heart jumped at the sight of him, as it so often did these days. 

Slightly flustered, she stared at him for a moment too long and then, realizing that she was still holding the rose to her lips, dropped her hand. She felt her cheeks begin to heat, and looked down before he could see the ridiculous grin that she couldn’t stop from spreading across her face.

“Good morning,” she said to the wood of her desk, and blushed harder at the sound of her voice, which she could only describe to herself as _throaty_. Her mind scrabbled frantically for something else to say, something normal, something casual, willing her body to calm down, but every second that passed made the clamoring mess of feelings inside her stronger and more unruly.

It was Strike who broke the silence first.

“Sorry.”

“For what?” she said, startled into looking up at him; but Strike was grinning in a way that was anything but contrite. 

“Going against orders,” he said, his eyes twinkling at her as he glanced pointedly down at the rose.

She laughed. “I’ll allow it,” she said, finding solid footing again on the back of his joke. “Just this once, mind you,” she added with mock severity. They stood there, grinning across the office at each other, for a long moment before Strike seemed to remember the coffee in his hand.

“Here,” he said, putting the paper cup on her desk. He placed the paper bag carefully down beside it, and glanced up at her almost shyly as he added, “Triple chocolate brownie.”

She recognized the logo on the bag; it belonged to a trendy new bakery that had exploded into sudden popularity, the artfully composed shots of its decadent pastries and cakes that swamped Instagram feeds drawing enormous crowds and resulting in lines out the door. She’d idly mentioned wanting to try one of their famous brownies, more than a week ago. She hadn’t thought he was listening.

Robin felt her heart swell and her eyes prickle threateningly. The bakery was nowhere near Denmark Street. Strike was on surveillance today; he wasn’t even supposed to be in the office. He’d gone out of his way, braved the tube at rush hour, to bring her this.

“You must’ve gotten up at the crack of dawn to beat the queue,” she said thickly, her attempt at lighthearted banter drowning in the tears pooling in her throat.

Strike shrugged, sipping his own coffee and leaning back against his side of the desk.

Robin sat, placing the rose that she’d still been holding carefully back in its vase.

“Didn’t you get anything for yourself?” she asked as she unwrapped her brownie, placing it on top of the smoothed-out bag where she could admire it, the chunks of dark chocolate and drizzle of ganache making her mouth water.

“Ate it on the way back,” he said with a sheepish shrug, and Robin laughed again. 

She was conscious of his eyes on her as she broke off a piece from the corner and took a bite. Her eyelids fluttered closed as the cake crumbled and melted on her tongue, the decadent, dark, fudgey chocolate prompting an involuntary moan of delight. 

Having savoured every moment of the morsel, she opened her eyes, and her breath caught in her throat as she met Strike’s gaze; for the briefest of moments his eyes were dark and blazing with something that looked almost like desire. Then he looked down, fiddling with the lid of his coffee cup, and the moment broke as Robin felt her heart start beating again.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything. I wasn’t expecting…” she trailed off, helpless to describe the jumbled mass of feelings that were burning under her ribcage. 

“You’re welcome,” he replied quietly, glancing back up at her. The burning in his eyes was gone, or banked; he heaved a breath and pushed himself up off the desk.

“Listen, before I head out…” he hesitated for a moment before he said, in a rush, “D’you have plans tonight?”

“Plans?” Robin said blankly.

“Yeah. Plans,” he said, eloquently.

“I—no, not really,” Robin answered, as articulate as her partner, blossoming excitement and quavering uncertainty mingling and fluttering in her stomach. “Max is having his boyfriend over, I was going to make myself scarce. Early night with a book kind of thing.” She became aware that she was babbling, and clamped her mouth shut. Strike took a deep breath.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” 

The question was clear and confident; but as Robin stared at him, her mouth hanging open a little in surprise, she could see a hint of fear and uncertainty lurking in his dark eyes, in the near whitening of his knuckles as he gripped his coffee cup.

“Tonight?” she managed, her voice emerging an octave too high.

“Yes,” he said, and when she didn’t respond, added with a rueful grin, “I’ll be both punctual and sober, I promise.”

Robin stared at him, lost for words. Was he asking what she thought he was asking? The flower, the chocolate… it was Valentine’s Day. Surely this wasn’t what best mates did on Valentine’s Day. Or was it?

“We’ll never get a table,” she said weakly, not knowing how to respond.

“I already have one.” He was holding her gaze, his dark eyes steady and warm.

“Well. Alright then,” she said, her cheeks pink, tucking her hair behind her ears with trembling fingers. “Yes. That would be…lovely.”

“Good.” The corners of his lips tilted, in a crooked and almost boyish grin. “Pick you up at seven?”

She nodded, but as he got up out of his chair to leave, his coffee in one hand and the other busy re-tucking the ends of his scarf into his collar, she felt the need to say something, anything, to put some kind of words to the hope blooming in her chest.

“It’s a date,” she blurted with sudden, reckless bravery.

Strike paused, glancing back at her with a cheeky grin as he reached the door. 

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes meeting hers with a burning intensity that made her stomach flip. “It is.”

And then he was gone. 

She fell back into her chair, her eyes falling on the white rose in its vase, fresh and bright in the morning sunlight trickling through the window, once again wondering why he’d chosen it.

Perhaps, she mused, unconscious of the tiny smile blooming on her face, she’d ask him tonight. 

On their date.


End file.
